


Comfort

by TurnIt0ff



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Mission, References to the Book thing, The Typical Thing Where They Move To New York, Therapy, mcpricely - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-01-29 00:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurnIt0ff/pseuds/TurnIt0ff
Summary: Snapshots of the future in 2 years post-canon. Thousands of miles from Uganda, Kevin's demons catch up to him as he adjusts to his new life with Connor in New York City. This time, he doesn't have to suffer alone.
Relationships: Elder "Connor" McKinley/Kevin Price
Comments: 22
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm new here. I didn't think I would spiral deep enough into this BOM hyper-fixation to post fanfiction, but here we are, folks. I hope you enjoy this thing and enjoy getting lost in shameless McPricely goodness as much as I did.

He lifted the spoon to his mouth, blowing away the tendrils of hot steam before taking a taste. His nose wrinkled at the first sip, both from the heat and the stubborn flavor. He put down the spoon and spun around, looking over the impressive display of seasonings and spices he had spread across the countertop. He had been at it for two hours, adding and combining different salts and vegetables, trying to get it right. He’d already thrown out two batches entirely after he added decidedly too much garlic and oregano, and he wasn’t even _sure_ if Kevin _liked_ oregano, like how do you date someone, _live_ with someone for over _two years_ and not even know their feelings on Oregano?

Connor braced his hands on the counter, hunching forward over his workspace. 

This had to be perfect. 

Because it was a cold and rainy day in Brooklyn, and people liked comfort food on cold and rainy days, and Kevin would be home any minute now, undoubtedly in need of comfort.

It was his first day of therapy. 

They had been back in the states for a couple months now, the two of them making off for New York City almost immediately upon their return. They had dreamed and schemed about it for months in Uganda, staying up into the wee hours of the night, hands intertwined between them on their pushed-together beds (having taken full advantage of Arnold’s extended stays with Nabalungi). They talked dreamily about the possibilities of the big city; what they would do there, where they would work, where they would live. Connor held back tears one night as he imagined a world in which he could walk down the street holding hands with his boyfriend and not be given a second glance. 

Kevin’s ideations of a life in Orlando had withered in unison with his faith in organized religion. There was too much of an association between the two, he’d pondered aloud one evening. Two childlike fantasies he couldn’t hold onto any longer. Not with the things he’d seen. The things he’d experienced. It was a dream that belonged to the old Kevin, one that he felt he could no longer stake any claim in. 

As the end of their unofficial two year mission grew nearer, the big red circle on the calendar that marked the beginning of the great and terrifying unknown loomed over them. Their wild dreams and fantasies began to take the form of concrete plans and logistical steps. Kevin’s grandfather had set up a trust fund years before he passed, ensuring that Kevin and his siblings would come into a decent sum of money when they each turned 21. It was meant mostly to go toward college tuition after their missions, but there was no legal stipulation in the contract. Maybe he could go to school in the city, or he could take some time to finally figure out for himself what he wanted to do with his life. 

Connor, being the chronic overachiever that he was, had been quietly taking distance-learning courses during the mission. Kevin had been the one to make the discovery when he found Connor holed up in his office at two in the morning, hunched over the old, brick-like laptop, typing away at his latest research paper. His face had burned red when he was caught, stuttering through an explanation that he didn’t want to seem like he was showing off or make the other boys think he wasn’t fully committed to his duties as their district leader. Because he _was._ Kevin had cut him off with a kiss, and when he pulled away, Connor was surprised to find nothing but admiration in his boyfriend’s eyes.

Those college credits, combined with the college classes he’d taken concurrently with his high school curriculum, insured him a Bachelor’s degree within a few months of returning. Fortunately, his essay writing skills had granted him plenty of scholarship money, leaving him with zero debt and even a little bit of money leftover to get him started. He was grateful for that. It was certainly more help than he would be getting from his parents. 

Living in New York with Kevin felt like a dream. Their apartment was small and definitely broke several health and safety codes, and their finances were tight, but it didn’t matter. Two years prior, these challenges might have seemed insurmountable, but something about surviving in a poor, war-torn African village had prepared them for the bleakest of circumstances. They felt like they could face anything now. Uganda had changed them. For worse and for better, they had come into themselves there, found their identities, found a purpose that surpassed anything the church or their tiny corner of the world had ever offered them. Now, the simple joy of having a consistent flow of running water and a working stove top felt like nothing short of a luxury. 

Connor had landed a job waiting tables at one of New York’s tourist-centered Broadway themed diners. Kevin had teased him about his enthusiasm over a food service job when he easily could have gotten something worthy of his degree and impressive service & leadership background, but Connor couldn’t resist the allure of working even adjacent to show business. 

Kevin didn’t have much room to talk, either. He’d smiled wryly at his boyfriend the day he came home holding a job application for a barista job opening. Connor had shaken his head in mock disappointment, but smiled back, knowing how satisfying it was for Kevin to raise yet another metaphorical middle finger to the church that had left them behind.

Things were going well. They were working, they were acclimating, they were happy. 

Mostly. 

One day, Connor had come home from a late shift at the diner to find Kevin awake and sitting on the couch, his eyes red-rimmed and unfocused, knees pulled to his chest. Connor knew something was wrong the second he saw him. He recognized that look all too easily.

“It’s been a while since you had a nightmare,” Connor had moved across the room to sit next to him, keeping a manageable distance. 

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Kevin replied without looking up, “I haven’t slept.”

Apparently, Kevin had experienced an unpleasant encounter on the subway coming home from work. 

His shift had gone later than usual, making him hit the brunt of MTA rush hour for his commute. Crowds and tight spaces were not Kevin’s forte to begin with, but he’d told himself a cramped train car was all part of the New York experience, that it wasn’t worth wasting the money on an Uber to get home, and it was only a 20 minute ride, anyway. And it had been fine, until it wasn’t. Until a towering man moved a little too close, nudging up against Kevin from behind, trapping him between his body and the pole. Kevin thought it was an accident at first — after all, it was shoulder to shoulder and hardly a smooth ride — but it didn’t matter. His mind had already taken off without him, sprinting full speed ahead toward the dark place he had mostly learned to avoid. It only got worse when the man didn’t correct himself, his body “accidentally” bumping into Kevin again and again as the train car jostled the swaying crowd, and all he could do was stand there, frozen, his knuckles draining white around the pole. Remembering. When the sliding doors opened three stops before his own, Kevin had broken through the wall of bags and shoulders between him and the exit, not even daring to look back at the face of the man who had crowded him before collapsing against the wall, gasping for air. 

He had walked the rest of the way home. 

“I thought I was over it,” Kevin whispered after relaying the story to Connor, a single tear sliding down his cheek, “It’s been two years. I should be _over_ it.”

The following days felt like a distant echo of a time both of them would have liked to forget. The era of quiet avoidance and sleepless nights and anxious hovering. Those weeks in Uganda when Kevin had been so broken, Connor had been so worried, and they had both been so lost. Except now, there were a few distinct differences. For one, there was no buffer of a house of teenage Mormons to offer distraction. There was no work to be done for a suffering village or residual panic over a church that had abandoned them. And then there was the biggest difference; Kevin was no longer the anxious newcomer, and Connor was no longer the unsure district leader trying to save a boy he hardly knew. 

Now, they were Kevin and Connor. 

Kevin and Connor, who slept in each other’s arms, brushed their teeth next to each other, who held hands on the sidewalk and kissed on the lips every chance they got. They were best friends and roommates and lovers and everything in between. He loved Kevin. Fiercely, passionately loved him, and Kevin had spent the past two years showing Connor in every way he knew how that the feeling was mutual. In their time together, they’d endured more than some people go through in their whole lives, and an inevitable bond had been formed, sealed tightly, forged by fire. Which is why Connor couldn’t stand by this time and watch Kevin fold in on himself again.

It hadn’t been easy talking him into seeing a therapist — both for Connor and for Kevin. Their upbringing hadn’t exactly encouraged airing out your darker thoughts, and Connor’s experience with “therapists” was hardly ideal, but he knew deep down that this was not the same thing that his parents had forced on him as a teenager. Kevin needed help that Connor couldn’t provide for him. He deserved it. They hadn’t had access to it in Uganda, but now they did. And he finally agreed. After a particularly bad nightmare, he had curled into Connor’s side and Connor felt the words, small and broken and whispered against his t-shirt, “I want to get better.”

And now that he was taking this huge and terrifying leap to better himself, the least Connor could do is offer him whatever modicum of comfort he could when he got home, even if that took the form of the perfect bowl of soup on a cold, rainy November day.

He was just about to toss out the latest batch and start fresh when he heard keys jigging in the doorknob. 

“Shoot!”

He hurriedly gathered the plethora of spices into his arms, shoving them back into the cabinet and placing the lid on the pot, switching the gas off. He spun around just in time to see Kevin walking through the door, pushing the hood of his sweatshirt back to reveal rain-glistened bangs. His eyes danced frantically over Kevin’s face, his body language, trying to gauge just how bad things were. 

“Hi,” Connor greeted lamely, hands wringing nervously in front of him, “I made soup.”

Kevin slid his jacket off his shoulders, offering Connor a forced smile. 

“Thanks, Con.”

Even from the kitchen, Connor could make out the red rims around his eyes. He watched after him as he crossed the room and folded himself stiffly into the couch, unsure of how to approach. 

“Are you… hungry?” He waited a beat before backtracking, “It’s okay if you’re not. You don’t have to eat now if you don’t want. Or at all. Whatever you need.”

He paused, his voice softening as he took a step closer to the couch.

“What _do_ you need?”

He expected Kevin to shrug it off, tell him he was fine and down a bowl of soup for show. He expected him to go to bed early without talking about it and then wake up early to make them both breakfast and pretend everything was okay. What he didn’t expect was for Kevin’s smile to twitch downward before faltering altogether, crumbling his stoic mask into pieces. Connor, still in his apron, rushed to his side, hovering his hands over Kevin’s suddenly slumped from, requesting silent permission, but it was Kevin who initiated contact, falling into his side as if he physically couldn’t stay upright for one more second. It was all the invitation Connor needed to wrap him up in his arms, feeling his boyfriend’s shoulders shake against him and wishing he could squeeze all the pain out of him. 

“Oh, honey,” Connor’s voice broke, his own lip starting to tremble, “I’m right here.”

As Kevin’s sobs grew rougher and more strained as they clawed from his raw throat, a ball of guilt rapidly ballooned in Connor’s chest. No bowl of soup, no matter how perfect, could make up for the fact that Connor had pushed him into taking this step, and clearly it had been too soon, too much, for him to handle. Each tear that soaked through his t-shirt was a tear that he had pulled from him, and it stung . Soon, Connor had tears running down his cheeks, too, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over Kevin’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispered. It was barely audible, and it brought him back two years, back to when they found themselves in a mirror of their current position, when Kevin broke under the weight of his secret and Connor was rendered incapable of anything but the lame utterance of apologies that would never be enough. After all this time, he resented how he could still find himself completely at a loss to help the man he’d admired them and loved now. But Kevin stiffened slightly at his words, pausing before untucking himself from Connor’s side enough to look up at him. The tears glistening from his long lashes were another punch to the gut.

“Why are you sorry?” Kevin asked, his brow furrowing as he noticed Connor was crying too. Ashamed, Connor swiped at his eyes, feeling like he had no right to take up any emotional real estate here. 

“Because,” Connor replied, running fingers through Kevin’s damp hair, “I shouldn’t have pushed you into going to therapy if you didn’t want to go. I should have listened to you, and I’m sorry it caused you more pain.”

Kevin pulled away entirely then.

“Don’t,” Kevin shook his head, “You have nothing to apologize for. You were right.”

Despite their circumstances, Connor found a smirk pulling at his lips. 

“Can you say that last part one more time? I need to savor the moment.”

Then Kevin’s mouth mirrored his own, and they both took a breath of relief as they giggled, the weight of the room seeming to lift, even if just a little. Connor took the opportunity to reach across his lap and take Kevin’s hand, smiling when he returned the gesture with a squeeze.

“I mean it,” Kevin emphasized, “Today was…”

He trailed off, his eyes drifting somewhere else for a moment before continuing.

“It wasn’t easy. But I feel like. Like, I don’t know. Like I’m doing the right thing.”

Connor breathed out a sigh of relief.

“I’m so glad to hear that, Kev,” he smiled and scooted backward until he was leaning against the arm of the couch, his arms opening in invitation, “Come here.”

Kevin obliged, moving to join him. He situated himself between Connor’s legs and leaned back against his chest, relaxing into his personal space as slender, familiar arms wound around his torso. 

“Is this okay?” He felt the words whispered into the top of his hair and nodded. There were times when even Connor’s gentle touch was too much for Kevin, and they had both learned to navigate those waters. Now was not one of those times, and they were both grateful for the much needed contact. They lay in silence for a few minutes, the scent of the forgotten soup wafting into the living room, Connor’s fingertips tracing lightly over Kevin’s arms.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Connor offered carefully, making sure Kevin knew that he was in no way obligated to do so.

Kevin hesitated for a moment.

“There’s not much to report,” he said, “We didn’t really get into it much today. She said we can ease into it as slowly as I needed.”

“Good,” Connor nodded, “That’s good. So, she makes you feel safe?”

He hesitated again.

“She seems good at what she does,” he settled, “She said she specializes in working with people who have been, um. You know... assaulted.”

His voice cracked on the last word, a nervous swallow breaking his dialogue. Connor tightened his embrace just slightly. He knew that Kevin still had a difficult time verbalizing what had been done to him, and Connor could hardly blame him.

They fell quiet again, and Connor figured that was the end of the conversation. He was fine with it, really. Kevin didn’t owe him a single word of it if he didn’t want to speak about it. But Kevin surprised him by offering more, this time in a softer voice.

“At the beginning, I had to fill out some paperwork. Just basic medical history, stuff like that,” he paused, taking a deep breath, “But then I got to the back page, and it was different kinds of questions. Rows of little white boxes next to words and I was supposed to check off the ones that I applied to me.”

Connor continued stroking up and down Kevin’s arms, feeling how he was beginning to shake again.

“A lot of them were things I didn’t even recognize, but then I got to the second row, and I… I saw it,” he paused, seemingly from necessity, and Connor’s stomach turned as he began to realize what Kevin was talking about, “Just staring up at me in black and white. Like it’s something so simple. Like everything he did to me could be reduced to words on a page and a little white box.”

Another tear slid down Connor’s face, and he was grateful that their position didn’t allow Kevin to see it. 

“And it was so stupid, but I froze up. I had my pen hovering over the box but I couldn’t make myself mark the page. Like ticking that tiny, white box was signing a contract that made it real.”

“I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, Kev,” Connor told him earnestly.

“Even though we didn’t talk about it much today, it was enough to make me realize that doing this means not making myself forget anymore. It means pulling it to the forefront of my mind instead of pushing it to the backburner, and I wasn’t prepared for how much that hurts .”

Connor leaned his head against the back of Kevin’s, nuzzling as close as he could get. He inhaled deeply, reveling in the familiar scent of Kevin’s cheap shampoo and aftershave, a welcome reminder that he was here and alive and safe. Eyes closed, he rattled off his next thought without thinking about it.

“A lot of survivors of sexual trauma report relapses in PTSD after seeking treatment for the first time,” Connor rattled off without thinking, “It’s natural for things to feel raw after revisiting something you’ve buried for so long.”

He only realized his slip-up when Kevin tensed in his arms, and then the heat creeped into Connor’s cheeks. Kevin twisted around slightly in his arms so he could look up at him, his brows knitted together in confusion. 

“How do you know that?”

Connor was quite sure the pink in his cheeks was visible, as it was every time, and he ducked his head slightly, evading Kevin’s questioning gaze. 

“I, um. It was just something that I read,” he mumbled. 

When Kevin just kept staring at him, pulling away to sit up completely and face him, Connor expelled a long breath and willed himself to hand over the truth, embarrassing as it was.

“Back when we were in Uganda,” he started, “After everything, um. After you told me what happened to you, I felt so helpless. I wanted to be there for you, I wanted to help you, and I felt like I was doing everything wrong. So I did what I do best. I researched.”

He glanced up at Kevin for the briefest moment, unable to read what he saw there in his eyes, and immediately lowered his gaze again before continuing. 

“As you know, we had limited internet access, but I used whatever time and resources I could to read up on articles and testimonials and…” he trailed off with a wave of his hand, dismissive and embarassed, “I know it sounds stupid. So very Elder McKinley of me to do more-or-less homework on the situation, and I hope you don’t think— I mean, I hope you’re not offended or mad or—”

Much to Connor’s surprise, his rambling was cut off by a soft pair of lips pressing against his. There was nothing sexual about it, but there was an unmistakable charge in the gesture; something desperate and raw and sweet. They stayed pressed together like that for several moments, Kevin’s hand coming up to rest on Connor’s cheek. Connor brought his hand up to cover his, a gentle thumb stroking over the back of his hand. When they finally pulled away, Connor was surprised to see a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill in Kevin’s eyes. A pang of worry throbbed in Connor’s chest, but before he could question him, Kevin tilted his forehead against his, keeping his hand on his boyfriend’s cheek as he whispered. 

“You did that for me?”

Connor blinked. Once, twice. That look in Kevin’s eyes. He recognized it then as love. He nodded.

Before he could comment further, Kevin’s chin was hooked over Connor’s shoulder, his arms thrown tightly around him, and he accepted the embrace without a thought, lifting his own arms to wrap around Kevin’s back. They seemed to let out a breath in unison, breathing a little bit easier in each others arms. Connor closed his eyes.

“Kevin, I have to ask you something.”

He felt him stiffen in his arms and squeezed a little tighter, a small smile playing at his lips.

“How do you feel about Oregano?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was never intended to have a second chapter, but in the midst of updating my other story, I got struck by an idea that wouldn't let me go. So here we are. Brace yourself for a little more darkness than last time.

“Are you cold? I can turn the heat up if you’d like.”

He hadn’t realized he was shivering until she spoke. He looked up at the woman across from him, arms folded tightly over his middle, watching as her eyes -- kind and warm -- flitted downward for half a second. Kevin followed her gaze to his bouncing leg. Unfolding himself, he pressed his palms into the tops of his thighs, forcing himself to be still.

“No,” he lied, “I’m fine, thank you.”

Truthfully, he _was_ cold. It was a cold room. That was something he remembered distinctly from his first session. He had thought about it this morning when he made the conscious decision to leave his sweater at home. Because cold was _good._ Cold was grounding, and it was _present._ It was New York City and long walks holding gloved hands and ice skating in Bryant Park with Connor. Most importantly, ‘cold’ was _not_ Uganda.

If he was going to do this, if he was going to relinquish his two-year grip on the rope he’d been clinging to and allow the gravity to pull him down into the waves that lapped at his feet, he was going to need every grounding force he could get to keep him anchored to shore.

“Well then,” the doctor replied easily, her warm smile doing little to assuage his discomfort, “Let’s begin, shall we?”

* * *

Connor opened his eyes to the harsh glow of green from his alarm clock.

3:24 a.m.

His mouth curled into a sleepy smile at the realization that he still had two hours before Kevin had to be up for work, leaving plenty of time for...

He blinked awake when his wandering hand found cold sheets instead of a warm boyfriend beside him. He felt around a little bit more before turning over. Sure enough, Kevin’s side of the bed was empty. He squinted into the darkness and found the bathroom door open, lights off. He furrowed his brow.

“Dammit!” He heard a muffled cry from the kitchen, followed by an aggressive tear of paper.

Connor sat up and pulled his legs over the side of the bed, sliding into his slippers. He made his way to the bedroom door, peeking out into the common area. In the dimly lit room, he found Kevin hunched over the kitchen bar, the muscles in his back tense as he worked fervently over whatever was in front of him. Surrounding him on either side was a mountain of discarded wads of paper, crumpled and spilling off the countertop, onto the hardwood around his barstool. 

Slipping out of the bedroom, Connor took an anxious step toward his boyfriend, unsure of how to approach the unusual sight before him.

“Kev?”

“Shit!”

Two more paper wads tumbled to the ground as he spun around on his stool, nearly knocking it -- and himself -- over. He let out a breath when he saw Connor.

“You scared me,” he breathed apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Love.”

Kevin shook his head, his eyes closing briefly as he still struggled to even his breathing.

“It’s okay,” he said, then apologetically again, “Did I wake you? I’m sorry, I was trying to keep quiet--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Connor interrupted gently, “You didn’t wake me.”

There was a pause between them, both of their attentions turning to the display of strewn papers at the same time.

“What is all this?” Connor asked genuinely.

“Oh, um,” Kevin made quick work of flipping the cover of the notebook shut, shuffling so that he stood in front of it, “It’s nothing.”

“It sure seems like an awful lot of nothing.”

He reached out playfully for one of the discarded sheets, but Kevin’s hand shot out with surprising ferocity, knocking it from his reach.

“Don’t.”

Connor blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness. Kevin dropped his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, “I’m sorry, I just… Please, don’t look at them.

Connor waited, concerned eyes scanning over him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Kevin elaborated when he sensed the questions in his eyes.

Connor nodded.

“Okay,” he said, “Don’t apologize. I’ll leave you be. Just… I’m right in there. If you need me, just wake me, okay?”

Kevin stood still but nodded as Connor leaned in to kiss his cheek before turning for the bedroom. He was almost to the door when Kevin spoke.

“I can make you a cup of coffee if you’d like.”

Connor stopped.

“We have decaf.”

He turned back, reading the silent plea in his boyfriend’s eyes. He knew Kevin well enough to know he was asking him to stay. He smiled, happy to take the cue.

“I’ll take a regular,” Connor said.

Kevin’s expression radiated relief as he relaxed his shoulders, turning to grab two mugs from the cabinet. Connor took a seat at the counter as Kevin got to work, decidedly choosing the seat furthest from the mountain of mystery papers. He rested his chin in his hand as he watched Kevin work, appreciating the familiar way Kevin moved around their kitchen, and only allowing himself a brief moment to note how good his butt looks in those grey sweatpants. The smell of fresh coffee wafted over to Connor and he smiled into his hand.

“This feels like old times,” he thought out loud, “Back in Uganda.”

Kevin turned over his shoulder as the coffee began to pour from the spout.

“The coffee tastes a little better now,” he said.

“Maybe it’s because you actually know how to make it now.”

“What, you don’t miss my filterless bean water?”

Connor snorted.

“Coffee isn’t meant to be crunchy, Kev.”

“It had character,” he shrugged, seeming to chew over something as he poured the first cup, “You know, I still haven’t met a soul in New York City who can make a cup quite like Kimbe.”

Connor remembered the taste like it was yesterday. The taste of rebellion, of freedom, of falling in love. A familiar warmth trailed down his spine at the memory.

“One thing I’ve come to learn is that there are very few things in this world that quite match the charm of our years in Kitguli.”

Kevin picked up both mugs, setting one in front of Connor before reclaiming his seat in front of the notebook.

“In a good way or a bad?” Kevin asked.

Connor took a moment to consider the question.

“Both, I think.”

Kevin took a moment as well. Then nodded.

“Yeah, me too.”

They were quiet for a moment as they both took a sip, enjoying the heat of the beverage and agreeing silently that, no, it wasn’t quite like it used to be.

“Do you ever think about going back to visit?” Kevin asked him after a moment.

“Sometimes,” Connor nodded, sliding both hands around the warmth of the mug, “I don’t think it would feel the same without the rest of the guys there. Without Mafala.”

Kevin looked down at his coffee.

“It feels like a memory preserved in a glass jar,” Connor continued, “It was amazing and terrible and inimitable. I don’t think we could ever recapture what that was, and that’s okay.”

Connor studied him carefully as Kevin took a sip.

“What about you?” he prompted, “Do you ever think about going back?”

Kevin’s expression shifted then, his eyes taking on a darkness that reflected the drink in his hands. He couldn’t help but notice the way his glance shifted briefly to the notebook.

“I don’t think I could do it,” he said quietly.

The answer was loaded, he could tell, but Connor didn’t want to push. He let the silence weigh on them until Kevin spoke up again, his voice soft and strained.

"They’re letters,” he confessed, gesturing to the wads of paper beside him, “To the General.”

Connor blinked, working hard to control his expression. Of all the things he had expected him to say, that was not even on the list. Kevin looked up at him, anxiety taking over his features at Connor’s reaction. He shook his head, fumbling to explain.

“Not, like--” He clamped his mouth shut, blinking hard, “I’m not sending them anywhere or anything.”

He turned his head so that he was facing slightly away from Connor, the slightest trace of pink creeping up to his ears.

“It’s this stupid thing for therapy,” he continued, “She -- my therapist -- thinks that maybe writing my thoughts out will help give me closure, since… well, I can’t just go to the police or. Or like, confront him or,” he cut off briefly, shaking his head again, “Get any kind of justice for what happened.”

Connor didn’t know what to say. He let his gaze travel from the pile of discarded letters and back to Kevin’s face. He wasn’t looking at Connor, his fingers scraping anxiously at the skin around his fingernail.

“How’s it coming?” He asked.

Kevin chuckled darkly, waving a haphazard hand at the mess around him.

“Not great, as you can see,” he let his hand fall heavy on the countertop, another letter sweeping to the floor, “I keep writing and rewriting and-- and it all sounds wrong. I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to _say?_ How am I supposed to take -- to take _everything_ and just wrap it up into words on a page? Into a _letter._ What do you say to the person who fucking destroyed your life and never looked back? The person who… who--”

He was standing now, his words broken by the jittering of uneven breaths. Connor could see the rapid movement in his chest beneath his t-shirt, the telltale signs of a panic attack lapping at the edges. He reached out, placing a hand on his against the counter. Kevin flinched, pulling back from the touch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered instantly, his eyes closed.

Connor shook his head.

“Don’t be.”

Kevin took a moment to calm his breathing and Connor let him have all the space he needed. When he sat back down, Connor relaxed into his seat, waiting for him to continue.

“She told me to ‘talk to him’ as if he were standing right in front of me,” He said, “Like it’s so simple. If he were actually in front of me, I’d probably…”

He trailed off, scoffing lightly.

“I don’t know.”

“You’d probably what?” Connor nudged.

“Kill him,” he said flatly, “Or fall on the ground and cry. Or maybe I’d do nothing at all. That’s what I did before, right?”

“Hey,” Connor stopped him immediately, soft and stern, “No. You are not going down that road.”

He shrugged again.

“It’s the truth.”

Connor let his eyes close for a moment, once again unsure just how much he should push.

“They had guns, Kev,” he said, “It was three against one.”

“I know. I was there.”

“You watched the General kill someone right in front of you not two days prior,” Connor continued, “You knew what he was capable of, and you were _smart._ You got out of there alive.”

Kevin shook his head, eyes trained on the counter, his voice resigned in a way Connor had rarely heard it.

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like I did.”

The silence hung on them for a long few seconds before Kevin met Connor’s eyes again, the earnesty in his expression breaking Connor’s heart.

“What if I never get better?” his voice was a broken whisper.

Connor reached across the countertop, this time waiting for Kevin to initiate contact. After a moment, he slid his hand into his.

“You will,” Connor promised. There was absolute conviction behind his words, strong enough to feel it pulsing in his veins. Kevin used his free hand to swipe at a runaway tear.

“What if I don’t believe you?”

“Don’t worry,” Connor squeezed his hand, “I’ll believe it enough for both of us until you get there.”

Kevin sniffled, taking another sip of his coffee. Connor patted the back of his hand.

“Come to bed,” Connor urged, “You have an hour before your alarm goes off. Try to get some sleep, and come back to this tomorrow with fresh eyes.”

Kevin set his mug down and Connor stood with a stretch, making his way back to the bedroom. He made it a few steps before he realized Kevin wasn’t following. He turned back to find him holding the notebook in his hands, staring down at it with an intensity he couldn’t quite read.

“You coming?”

Kevin blinked up at him, breaking from whatever trance he had lost himself in. He met Connor’s eyes for only a moment before dropping back to the object in his hands.

“In a minute,” he muttered, and Connor knew that was his cue to leave.

With a nod, he turned and retreated into the bedroom alone. The last thing he heard before he closed the door was the click of a pen, the sound of a new page turning. 

* * *

To the worst person I know:

It sucks to think that you probably never even thought of that day after it happened. That maybe you wouldn’t even recognize my face if you saw me again, <strike>which I hope never, ever, ever happens.</strike> It seems profoundly unfair to me that this truth can exist while, here, on the other side of the world, I still dream about you sometimes. On my worst days, I swear I see your face on strangers in the street and it fills my veins with ice water every time. <strike>It’s been two years and I still can’t forget the dead look in your eyes.</strike> It sucks, so very much.

And you don’t even care. That’s the worst part.

I wish it would matter if I told you. If I told you all the ways you destroyed my life in the span of a single hour. I didn’t get a full night of sleep for months after that night. I stopped writing to my parents <strike>even if they wouldn’t write me back either way.</strike> I stopped eating, stopped talking, stopped caring. It took me so long to crawl out of the shell you forced me into, and when I did, I had to rebuild myself from the ground up. But I did. 

I fell in love in Uganda, and it was so hard for me to open myself up to that. Something that should have been beautiful and good felt insurmountable and wrong. Because of you. I couldn’t have sex for a long time without having a panic attack. <strike>Sometimes I still can’t.</strike> I cried all the time and apologized for a crime that was never mine to claim. I hated myself, knowing that you still had the power to steal good things away from me. As if I was the one who handed it over to you. <strike>Sometimes I feel like I’ll never get that power back.</strike>

I’m happy now. Above all else, I want you to know that. I need you to know that you didn’t ruin me forever. <strike>And I think I need to know it, too.</strike> I live in an amazing city, I have friends and a job and I have a boyfriend who loves me. I’m sure you’d have a lot to say about that. I’ll never forget the vile things that you said to me. <strike>Even after all this time, the ring of your words sting just as sharply as the memory of your touch.</strike> You made me feel like I was nothing. Like I was unworthy of love. But you were wrong. Together, he and I spend every day untangling the knots that you tied up inside of me. He makes me happy. And it brings me satisfaction knowing you’ll never know that kind of love for as long as you live. 

I don’t understand you. 

I guess that’s a good thing. To understand why you did what you did to me would mean having the capacity to hurt someone, for no other reason than because you can. And I don't. So I’ve given up on asking why. Because I’m coming around <strike>slowly, slowly, but surely</strike> to the idea that it had nothing to do with me at all. And lifting that burden off my shoulders makes me stronger than you’ll ever be.

I don’t know where you are today. I don’t know if you’re dead or alive. You’ll never read this letter regardless, but if it were to find you, I would hope it found you six feet underground. You deserve something far worse than death could offer, but I hope for the sake of the village and all that is just in this world, that you are somewhere where you can never hurt anyone again. There is no justice for what you’ve done. No amount of praying or crying or fake letter writing could ever undo the past. But I’m done trying to outrun it, and that is the first step of many I’ll grant myself in taking back my power. 

<strike>Fuck you. </strike>

\-- Kevin Price


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of keys jingling in the door signaled that Kevin was home early. Connor flipped his wrist to glance at his watch. _Huh._ Therapy must have gotten cut short. He closed his book as Kevin entered the apartment, setting it down on his blanket-clad lap. 

“Hi, babe,” Connor called out, alerting Kevin that he was in the room. Kevin glanced up at him from the doorway, a brief pause preceding the tight smile he shot back. 

“Hey.”

Connor chewed at the inside of his cheek as he watched Kevin peel off his jacket and slip out of his shoes, debating whether or not to ask about his session. Ending early didn’t seem like it was necessarily a bad thing, but if it was, it probably wasn’t something Kevin wanted to be hounded about the moment he came home. 

“There’s half a turkey club in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he said instead, opting to give Kevin his space, “It’s from that place on Myrtle you like.”

If he wanted to talk about it, Connor would let him come to him. Pretending to be distracted, he picked up his book again and began scanning the page to find where he had left off. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Kevin cross into the kitchen and open the refrigerator door for a few seconds before closing it again, empty handed. He stood still in the kitchen for a quiet moment, and Connor heard him let out a long breath. He looked up from his book when he sensed Kevin walking toward him, stopping directly in front of where Connor sat on the couch. Confused, Connor closed the book again and sat it on the arm, bringing his feet down to rest on the floor. Wordlessly, Kevin reached down and plucked the blanket from his lap, tossing it aside. Connor sank back into the couch cushions as Kevin slid a knee on either side of him, fingers kneading into his shoulders for support as he straddled his lap. Connor blinked up at him, surprised but certainly not complaining. 

“Well, hi there, gorgeous,” Connor hummed, smoothing his hands over his boyfriend’s thighs. His eyes fluttered closed as Kevin’s hands slid downward from his shoulders, tracing over his chest. 

“Hi,” Kevin replied, leaning down to place a slow, soft kiss against his lips. Connor raised his palms instinctively to Kevin’s waist, fingers curling into his sides.

“I missed you,” Kevin pulled back half an inch to whisper, seduction heavy in his voice. 

A shiver ran down Connor’s spine as Kevin began peppering small kisses from the corner of his mouth, tracing down his jawline. When they reached his neck, Connor let his head fall back against the arm of the couch, lips curving into a smile.

“I can see that,” he crooned, “What’s the special occasion?”

Kevin moved back up to his mouth, hovering teasingly over it with a smile.

“What, I need an excuse to want to ravage my boyfriend?”

He captured Connor’s lips again before he could respond and Connor whined into the kiss, rocked by the sudden intensity of it. He reciprocated gratefully, hungrily pulling his boyfriend’s hips closer on instinct.

“No, I just,” he spoke around his moving mouth.

“Just what?”

“Just unexpected is all.”

Kevin sat back on Connor’s knees, a flash of what looked like hurt and maybe frustration passing over his expression before he masked it with a smirk. 

“That’s a good thing, right?” he said. There was the slightest twinge of agitation in his voice, but then he was rocking his hips forward in a way that made Connor twitch under him. 

“Yes, of course,” he tried to assure him, cut off by another kiss. He wanted to say more, to question the glaring oddity in his boyfriend’s demeanor and figure out what was wrong, but Kevin was determined now, winding both hands into Connor’s hair and kissing him with a ferver Connor could only describe as desperate. He relaxed into the touch, succumbing easily to Kevin’s advances as he grinded on his lap, his breath growing more ragged. He slid his hands back and around Kevin’s jeans and gave a firm squeeze. Kevin twitched in his movements, a small noise that didn’t sound entirely enthusiastic catching in his throat, but he didn’t give Connor any time to question it. He threw his arms around Connor’s neck and slipped sideways off his lap, pulling them down to the couch until he was on his back, Connor on top of him. 

The urgency of Kevin’s touch increased in their new position. He writhed beneath him, wrapping a leg around the back of Connor’s and pushing his hips up to meet his. Connor let out a low sound of approval, holding his weight off Kevin easily on his elbow. 

“I love you,” Connor murmured against his skin as he trailed down to his neck, returning the favor from earlier. Kevin threw his head back to allow him room, his fingers curling into Connor’s back, digging perhaps a little too deeply. Connor winced but continued his trail up to Kevin’s ear, biting gently and smiling as a hiss slid between Kevin’s teeth. He pulled him back to his mouth then, and Connor was suddenly, startlingly aware of the way Kevin’s body was trembling beneath his. He pulled back just slightly, but it was Kevin who used the opportunity to speak.

“Touch me,” he panted, fists still clenched tightly at the back of Connor’s shirt. 

Connor held himself above him, eyes scanning over his.

“You sure?” He tried to sound casual. He didn’t want to risk ruining the mood if he was just misreading things, because maybe he was. 

“Please,” Kevin breathed, and Connor felt some wall of resolve break in him. Who was he to deny a begging Kevin Price? He crashed his lips down onto Kevin’s this time, earning a cry of surprise and approval. He took it slow, starting at his collarbone and slowly trailing his fingers down, stopping only to slide across his nipple. Smiling at the soft gasp, Connor slid his palm down Kevin’s chest to his stomach, finally coming to rest at his belt buckle. His fingers expertly pulled the leather, freeing the first strap from the metal. 

“Is this okay?” 

He felt the immediate jerk of Kevin’s nod, but when Connor glanced up to his eyes, he found them screwed tightly shut, a small crease pinched between his eyebrows. He instantly withdrew his hand, his heart skipping a beat as he pushed himself up slightly. Kevin was definitely trembling.

“Hey,” Connor spoke softly, concern lining his features. He placed a gentle hand against Kevin’s cheek, “Are you okay?”

Kevin didn’t open his eyes, but he nodded again, the movement tight and forced. 

“Fine,” he said, but his voice was pinched in a way that twisted Connor’s stomach. Without wasting a second, Kevin brought his fingers up to wind through Connor’s hair again, pulling him back down. Connor resisted.

“Wait, hon, slow down.” 

“I’m _fine,_ Connor,” Kevin practically growled, arching off the couch so he could attack Connor’s mouth again. Connor was worried now, and tried to squeeze in words around Kevin’s urgent lips. 

“We don’t - mmm - have to do this right now.” 

“I know that. I’m the one who started it, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean - mmm - we can’t stop.”

“I don’t _want_ to stop.”

“Kevin…”

“Connor, _please,--_”

“Kevin!” Connor gasped softly, pulling back from him with a hand on his cheek, heart sinking to his stomach at the sight before him, “You’re _crying.”_

Kevin blinked, taking a few ragged breaths. Another line formed between his brows, as if he was just now realizing that he was, in fact, crying. He recoiled out of Connor’s touch, wriggling out from under him and pushing himself against the arm of the couch. Connor scrambled to move off of him, sliding to the opposite end. As the two of them struggled to catch their breath from across the silence, Connor watched Kevin with a look of horror and regret. Kevin watched the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor was the first to speak, desperately sincere and wavering unsteadily, “I’m sorry, Kevin, I— What did I do?”

Kevin wiped his tears with the back of his hand.

“You didn’t do anything,” he whispered, “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“No, hey, honey. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” Kevin bit, his fists balling at the fabric of his jeans.

Connor’s heart lurched at the frustration in his voice. 

“Talk to me, love.”

Kevin drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Connor could see the tremors running down his arms from where he sat. He dropped his forehead onto his knees for a few moments, taking several deep breaths before surfacing again. 

“I’ve been having a hard time again,” he swallowed, his words thick with shame, “With, um. _Doing_ stuff.”

He paused to briefly glance up at Connor, his cheeks flushed from more than their tanked makeout session.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Connor didn’t need to ask for further elaboration. The truth was, he _had_ noticed. In little ways that he had tried to brush off at first. After all, there could have been a million reasons why Kevin shied away from a kiss in bed, or snaked out of Connor’s hold when he came up behind him to wrap his arms around his waist while he cooked. He could have been tired or stressed, or Connor could have been overanalyzing things, as he tended to do. But for all his overthinking, Connor had good instincts, and he wasn’t oblivious. If the rocky, beautiful, terrifying first year of their relationship had taught him anything, it was how to recognize the signs of Kevin’s PTSD resurfacing, even when he tried to hide them. Navigating the physical aspect of their relationship had been a challenge, especially in the beginning when they were both so young and inexperienced, Kevin still so hurt and so scared. Connor would not soon forget the first time they tried to go all the way in Uganda, nor the long hours into the night he had spent holding Kevin as he trembled and sobbed and apologized. It was hardly smooth sailing after that, but in time, they got better. They learned the importance of communication and patience, and Connor learned how to read Kevin beyond what he was able to speak. Which was why he wished more than anything he would have heeded the signs earlier this time. 

“Sweetheart,” Connor breathed, “You could have talked to me.” 

“I didn’t want it to be true,” Kevin shrugged, “I don’t want to go back to that. Ever.”

“So, just now…That was?”

A flash of embarrassment passed through Kevin’s eyes. 

“I thought if I…” He trailed off, shaking his head, “Nothing, it’s stupid.”

“Please?” Connor whispered, “Tell me?”

He watched Kevin’s mouth tug downward at the corner, his chin tightening as he struggled to control the quivering. He blinked hard and swallowed before speaking.  
“I thought if I could maybe just, force my body to get through it, to relax, then…” He shook his head, locking his jaw in frustration, “Then, I don’t know. Maybe my brain would stop being so fucking _stupid_ and _listen_ to me when I tell it that everything is fine. That it’s just _you_, and not...”

Connor scooted forward just slightly, careful not to crowd Kevin’s space, and reached out for his hand. Kevin hesitated a moment before lacing his fingers in his. 

“Kevin, I love you so much,” Connor said, “But please, _please,_ never do that again.”

Kevin’s eyes flickered up to Connors, welling with moisture. He looked guilty and scared, and Connor squeezed his hand tight.

“I’m not mad at you,” he hurried to assure him, “Not a bit. I just. I never want you to _force_ yourself through anything with me. Never.”

Kevin nodded.

“I just wanted to prove to myself that it’s not like it was before, with us, that...” he said, voice shrinking, “That he doesn’t get to take that away from me again.”

Connor’s heart shattered.

“Kevin,” he said, swallowing back the sting of tears that threatened behind his own eyes, “What you’re up against… it’s huge. Don’t rush yourself. I love you for a million reasons. I don’t need us to have sex twenty-four hours a day to be happy with you.”

Despite Connor’s lighthearted tone, Kevin ran a frustrated hand through his hair, pinching his eyes closed. 

“But I _want_ to have sex with you, Connor, don’t you get it?” he said, “I love having sex with you.”

“Believe me,” Connor chuckled softly, tracing his thumb over Kevin’s, “The feeling is mutual. But I care so much more about your brain. And your heart. And protecting those things first.”

“We were doing fine,” Kevin laughed humorlessly, “I wasn’t having panic attacks anymore, I felt safe, I felt _good_ and now… having to force all these memories back up in therapy… It ruined all of that.”

“Recovery isn’t a straight line,” Connor reminded him gently, “And two years, well. It isn’t really all that long a time in the grand scheme of things.”

Kevin withdrew again, falling quiet. 

“Some days it feels like it was a lifetime ago,” he spoke after a minute, “Some days it feels like it’s still happening.”

Connor couldn’t stop the tear from rolling down his cheek then, grateful that Kevin wasn’t looking at him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, because what else could he say in the face of that brutal reality? “You never deserved any of this.”

Connor wished more than anything he could have taken it away; the pain, the memories, all of it. If there was anything in the world he could have done, if he could have taken his place and ran into the General’s camp instead all that time ago, he would have. In a heartbeat. He felt certain that nothing could have broken his heart more than watching this boy - this sweet, compassionate, terrified, beautiful boy - wilt beneath the shame and suffering that never should have been his to carry. 

Connor lay awake that night, unable to close his eyes without the images of the afternoon flashing painfully before him. Kevin’s eyes clamped shut in fear as Connor’s hand touched his belt. Kevin’s body trembling beneath his with the strain of keeping himself composed. He swallowed back the lump in his throat at the memory, willing himself not to cry again.

Kevin had fallen asleep on his chest, one arm draped across Connor’s stomach, and he was immensely grateful for the contact. The tickle of his boyfriend’s breath through parted lips against his bare skin, the scent of his hair pushed up against his chin, all served as a much needed reminder that he was _here_. That he was safe and sound, because as long as Connor was alive, no one could touch him. He looked down at the boy in his arms and couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as his eyes landed on one of the many holes in his blue t-shirt. The sight set off a flutter of warmth in his chest as he remembered the first time he saw it, hanging in the market in Kitguli, with its faded Disney logo, and knew he had to buy it for the sad, broken boy that waited back at the mission hut. He frequently teased Kevin about keeping it for all this time despite the fact that it looked like it had been through a shredder, but it never failed to make Connor's heart skip a beat every time he saw him pull it over his head. 

He tightened his arm around Kevin’s shoulders instinctively, reveling in the steady rise and fall of his chest against his own. The boy stirred in his arms and Connor stilled beneath him, afraid to fully wake him from the much needed slumber. But he only moved enough to curl in tighter to Connor’s side, planting his lips softly against Connor’s bare chest before nuzzling in and falling back asleep. Connor let out a shuddering breath. His eyes were glistening again, but this time he didn’t blink away the tears.

No, as long as Connor was alive, no one would ever hurt Kevin Price again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for mentions of depression & suicidal thoughts & sexual assault**  
Basically, a lot of unhappiness in this one, not that it's been a walk in the park thus far.

Kevin was still in bed when Connor arrived home from his early shift at the diner. He wasn’t surprised, necessarily, but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t allowed himself the tiniest sliver of hope for improvement on his commute home. They were going on day three since the night of their derailed sexual encounter, and in that time, Kevin hadn’t gotten out of bed for longer than the time it took to use the bathroom or grab something insubstantial from the kitchen. He still wore the same grey sweatpants and dark pullover hoodie from three days prior, and the smell was getting harder to ignore when Connor lay across the bed from him at night, feeling much further away from him than the parameters of a full size bed should allow. 

He sighed to himself as he entered the bedroom, peeling off his jacket and his stripping out of his work clothes. He cast a sidelong glance at Kevin’s unmoving form underneath the blankets, and he could tell he was awake by the pattern of his breathing. 

“Hey, Kev,” he said, injecting as much cheerfulness into the greeting as he could muster. Kevin shuffled beneath the covers in response. At least he got _something._

When he was down to his boxers and undershirt, he approached Kevin’s side of the bed, carefully reaching out to card his fingers through his hair. It was coarse to the touch, falling flat in stringy clumps around his face.

“Did you call into work again?” he asked as he brushed a section of hair off of his forehead, attempting to keep any edge of accusation out of his tone. Kevin burrowed deeper into the pillow, Connor’s hand falling away. 

“I don’t feel well,” he muttered, muffled by the fabric. 

Connor tried to hide his sigh, but he figured Kevin probably didn’t notice either way. He turned to the nightstand beside Kevin’s head and collected the empty Gatorade bottle, rolling up the half-eaten bag of tortilla chips. He dusted the crumbs off the comforter beside Kevin and tucked the blankets tighter around his shoulders, making him as comfortable as he could be before bringing back a fresh glass of water to set beside him. 

When Connor returned from his much needed shower, he found the glass of water to be untouched, a small pool of condensation gathered on the wooden surface. He dressed in silence, searching for the right words to say, if they existed. He was beginning to feel fairly sure they did not. He knew what he wanted to say, but he was terrified of pushing his boyfriend even further away from him. He reached into the dresser and pulled out his favorite hoodie -- Kevin’s, not his -- aching to feel close to him in any small way he could. He moved to Kevin’s side again and sat down on the edge of the bed, giving into the war in his head against his better judgement. 

“Do you think you should go to therapy today?” he asked, bracing himself for the response. Kevin closed his eyes. 

“I told you I don’t feel well,” he repeated. 

“I know,” Connor pressed carefully, “But I just think that with the type of _unwell_ that you’re feeling, maybe she could--”

“You don’t know what I’m feeling.”

His voice wasn’t necessarily aggressive, but it certainly came with a harder edge than Connor was used to. He winced slightly, unsure of how to continue but equally unsure if he was causing more harm by letting it go. 

“You’re right,” Connor conceded, because he _was_ right to some degree, Connor had a very difficult time knowing what was going on in his boyfriend’s head, “But I think your therapist would be better equipped to help you work through this--”

“I told you I’m not going,” now he snapped at him, pushing away from Connor to turn on his other side. 

Connor squeezed his eyes shut, unable to push away the gnawing guilt at how tired he suddenly felt. 

“This is the second day this week you’ve cancelled,” he said. 

Slowly, Kevin propped himself up onto his elbow before pushing himself to a sitting position. He turned to face Connor, a glint of agitation breaking through the flatness in his eyes. 

“Have you considered that maybe the _last_ thing I want to do when I’m not feeling well,” Kevin said, standing to his feet, “is go drag myself through hell, talking about the worst day of my life with a perfect fucking stranger?”

“I know it’s not easy, Kev.”

Kevin had moved several paces toward the bathroom when he turned slowly on his heel, an exasperated expression staring back at Connor. 

“You _know it’s not easy?”_ he baited, an incredulous, joyless smile darkening his words, “Really, Con?”

Connor tilted his head to one side, standing to meet him. 

“You know I didn’t…” he shook his head, “I didn’t mean it like _I know_.” 

“You _don’t_ know,” Kevin stepped on his words once again, “You don’t have any idea what it’s like. You talked me into going to therapy because it would _help_ me, but all it’s done is make me relive absolute hell when I was doing just fine on my own.”

Connor bit his tongue, wanting to retort with a million things that were at the ready in his throat. How he most certainly had _not_ been fine when they made the decision _together_ that Kevin should consider therapy. How Connor had been nothing but supportive and told him he would be okay with whatever he decided either way. Because he knew Kevin wasn’t thinking straight right now, and he was letting his emotions lead him, even though his words stung just as much with that knowledge. 

“Are you saying you regret it now?” Connor asked genuinely, trying to get a civil conversation back on track. Kevin ran a hand through his matted hair, letting out a long breath. 

“I don’t know,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I thought you said you were glad you decided to go,” Connor crossed his arms over his chest, grounding himself with the soft cotton of Kevin’s shirt around him. 

“Yeah, Connor, I’m simply _elated_,” he bit, his eyes still closed, “Over the moon.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Let me tell you, it feels great to lose all my sleep to nightmares again,” Kevin dropped his hand to his side, his voice growing thick under the tension, “I really missed that part.”

“Kevin...”

“Or to miss work for the first time in my life because I slipped into a depressive fucking episode.”

“Kev.”

“It feels so fucking good, Connor, to know that I can’t let strangers, or my friends, or _god forbid my boyfriend_ touch me without remembering what it felt like to be _raped.”_

The word was a bullet shattering glass, leaving the jagged shards to sprinkle down over them in the fallout. In all the time they had been together, in all the time Kevin had struggled to deal with what happened to him, he had never once called it what it was. And it stung, sharp and potent in the air around them, sucking all noise out of the room. Connor was stunned into silence, the ache in his chest so deep it radiated out into his veins. 

“Kevin,” he took a cautious step toward him, but Kevin jerked away, stumbling backward.

“Don’t,” he gasped, his breath lost to a sob. Connor stopped, watching him with imploring eyes. Kevin’s shoulders were hunched forward, his chest heaving from the effort it took to pull air into his lungs. 

“Don’t,” he repeated, quieter this time, his eyes screwed shut. He took another step back from Connor before he turned in a haste, storming to the closet. Connor watched helplessly as he ripped his jacket off of the hanger and pulled it on over his hoodie, grabbing his shoes and slipping them on after. He blew past Connor, into the living room. 

“Where are you going?” Connor followed after him, using all his restraint to resist throwing himself between him and the front door, “Kevin? It’s late.”

“Don’t wait up for me,” Kevin muttered, throwing up his hood. 

“Kevin, please--” 

The door slammed shut, leaving Connor frozen in the middle of the living room. Every muscle in his body ached to run after him, to stop him from running out into the cold like this, to bring him home and hug him and tell him how sorry he is for everything he said and for everything that was far beyond either of their control. But he didn’t move. What was he supposed to do? Drag him back by force? Kevin was an adult, and he had clearly expressed that he needed some space right now, no matter how much it gnawed at Connor to think about his boyfriend out there alone in the state he was in, he had no choice but to let him go.

* * *

His phone buzzed twice against his chest. 

With embarrassing speed, Connor flipped it over and squinted against the harsh blue light in the darkness of the bedroom. It was a text from Kevin. He let out a long breath through his nose, swiping his phone open. 

**K: _wehre are yuo_**

His relief was quickly impeded by the off-brand subtext of the short message. Kevin was one of those people who was meticulous about the linguistics of his texting voice, always using perfect grammar and double checking his spelling. Connor didn’t love the implications of what he was seeing. He pushed aside his anxiety and typed a quick response. 

**C:_ I’m at home. Where are you?_**

Connor watched the ‘typing’ bubble dance on his screen for a moment before disappearing. Then again. He frowned at his phone, pushing his blanket aside to sit up on the bed. He waited a few moments before sending a followup text. 

**C: _Are you okay?_**

He waited for what seemed like hours, eventually locking his phone when he couldn’t stand to watch the dancing bubble on the screen any longer. He forced himself to lie back for a minute to calm his racing thoughts, and then finally, his phone buzzed again. When he read the message, he shot straight up in bed. 

**K: _im sorru connor i love uou_**

Heart thumping against his ribcage, Connor tapped his boyfriend’s photo and hit _send_, immediately pulling the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice, before Kevin picked up, and Connor deflated with relief. 

“Connor?” Kevin’s voice came slurred through the speaker, and Connor’s eyes slipped shut. All it took was one word to know that he was drunk. 

“Hey, Kev.”

“I’m sorry we fought,” Kevin said, sincerity bleeding through the unfamiliar twinge in his tone, “I love you.”

Drunk or not, Connor’s heart fluttered in his chest at the quiet earnesty of his words. 

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

“I wanna come home,” Kevin slurred, his voice unexpectedly breaking off into a sob at the end. He sounded terrified. “Connor, I wanna come home.”

Something in the tone had shifted, setting Connor on edge, though he couldn’t piece together exactly why. He picked his t-shirt off the floor and slipped it over his head. 

“Okay,” Connor’s voice came out higher than he intended, “Honey, you can come home. I _want_ you to come home.”

“I can’t,” he barely heard the words, cracked and whispered from the other side of the phone, “I can’t.”

Connor’s arms tingled with the hint of numbness at the desperation in his voice. For all Kevin’s faults, a poor sense of direction wasn’t one of them. This was the kid who had prided himself on committing the entire New York subway map to memory before they had even gotten out of Uganda. Something was very wrong. 

“What do you mean ‘you can’t,’ Kev?” he asked gently over the sound of Kevin’s muffled crying. Connor held his breath as he waited for Kevin to catch his. 

“I can’t,” he repeated, this time with more of an edge of hysteria. 

“Okay,” Connor replied quickly, already crossing the room to grab his socks and shoes, “Okay, sweetheart, that’s alright. I’m going to come get you, okay? Can you tell me where you are?”

Kevin let out a few more broken sobs. In the background, Connor could hear the sharp rustle of wind. He was outside. 

“Kevin?” He prodded. He heard sniffling on the other end. 

“Fourth ave,” Kevin hiccuped, “And Ninth.”

Connor blinked, scrambling to catch up with his thoughts. Was he still in Brooklyn? Had he gone all the way to Manhattan? Was he -- _oh._ The oncoming rumble followed by the telltale squeal of brakes on the other end of the line shifted the pieces into place. 

“Are you at the Fourth Avenue station?” Connor asked, slipping his second shoe over his heel and spinning in a circle to find his keys, “On the G line?”

“Yes,” Kevin hiccuped again, but Connor’s relief was short lived as a darker realization crashed into him, brief flashes of his very intoxicated boyfriend in an already-compromised mental state wandering too closely to the platform edge. He swallowed, feeling his arms tingle with numbness once more.

“Kevin,” he spoke carefully, trying his best to keep his voice even, “Stay far back from the yellow line on the ground, okay? Maybe find a bench if you can and sit down while you wait for me. Can you do that for me?”

Connor was already grabbing his jacket, slamming the apartment door shut and racing down the stairs. Kevin had gone silent. 

“Hon, please talk to me,” he urged, unable to keep the panic from seeping in as he pushed out the front door of their building. 

“I’m here,” Kevin whispered. 

“Good,” Connor breathed, “Listen, Kev, I’m going to put the phone down so I can call an Uber. Just… please, stand back from the yellow line, okay?”

He waited until he heard a small hum of acknowledgement that sounded more like a whimper before dropping his phone to open the rideshare app. The phone was shaking in his hands, fingers dancing over the keys as he typed. He tapped the blinking green bar at the top of the screen so he could switch Kevin to speaker in case he needed to talk to him, but his trembling thumb hit the red button instead, ending the call. 

_”Shit,”_ he hissed uncharacteristically, heart jumping in his chest, “No, no, no.”

He frantically redialed the number by heart, pressing the phone hard against his ear. It rang several times before rolling into the familiar recording. 

_”Hi, you’ve reached Kevin Price. Or, I guess if you’re hearing this, you haven’t reached Kevin Price--”_

Connor hung up and immediately tried again.

_”Hi, you’ve reached Kevin Price--”_

He was on the verge of hyperventilating now, clutching his phone so hard in his hand he thought the screen might shatter. He couldn’t be sure of the exact state of his boyfriend’s mind at the moment, but his darkest intuitions told him his panic might be warranted. Kevin wasn’t much of a drinker, keeping his main vice to the equally scandalous cold brew he knocked back, and it was nothing short of a rarity to see him actually _drunk_. Connor knew Kevin had been going through it lately, the weight of resurrecting his demons taking its toll on his mental health in ways that were both glaring in its ramifications and quiet in the ways Kevin held back from him. That, coupled with the uncharacteristic drinking, coupled with his frantic phone call from a train platform, painted a vivid image of horror that Connor couldn’t shake loose from his mind. After one more failed attempt at a phone call, Connor shakily re-opened the app to call his car, and for the first time in years, he found himself praying.

* * *

Connor raced up the platform steps two at a time, moving as quickly as his shaking legs would allow him. He peeked through the glass panel in the door as soon as he reached the top, hoping desperately to catch a glimpse of his boyfriend on the other side, but he couldn’t see much from his angle. He fumbled with his wallet, struggling to retrieve his metrocard from the leather pocket with his trembling fingers. He swiped it once, twice, three times before sparing half a glance over his shoulder and bracing his hands on either side of the turnstile. He pulled his legs over with surprising ease and wasted no time pushing through the doors and onto the platform. 

He looked both ways, eyes scanning over the sparse crowd for the familiar mop of dark hair. It was almost midnight on a Wednesday evening in Brooklyn and there was hardly a soul in sight. He spotted him, then, alone at the end of the platform, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle, the toes of his sneakers daring just over the faded yellow line. Connor’s heart was in his throat as his legs began carrying him slowly, cautiously, in his direction. Kevin was staring down at the tracks in what appeared to be a daze, entirely unaware of his boyfriend’s approaching presence. As he got closer, Connor could see the tear tracks that lined Kevin’s cheek and the new moisture that gathered in his eyes. 

“Kevin,” he addressed him softly when he was still several yards away, slowing his movements so as not to ambush him. When he didn’t respond, Connor took half a step closer, raising his voice just enough, “Kevin?”

He looked up at him then, the desolate, frightened look in his eyes nearly knocking Connor on his back. He took a breath and felt his palms raise slightly of their own volition as he took another step toward him. 

“Hey,” he whispered, forcing a shaky smile into his expression, “Let’s go home, yeah?”

Kevin held his gaze for half a moment before redirecting his attention back to the tracks. He watched as a rat scurried out from under a wooden panel before disappearing under the other side. When Kevin raised his right hand to his mouth, Connor saw for the first time that he was holding a loosely-covered bottle. He watched as Kevin took a long swig from the neck, barely wincing at the unaccustomed sting in his throat. The knot in Connor’s stomach pulled tighter. When he dropped the bottle back to his side, Kevin swayed just slightly, his left foot shuffling forward on the painted concrete. Connor stepped closer, his breath catching in his throat. 

“Kev, why don’t we move away from the edge?” Connor tried to keep his voice light, but Kevin didn’t seem to hear him. He sniffled, wiping the back of his sleeve across his face.

“I was going to take the train home,” he spoke down at the track, low and raspy in a way that curled Connor’s stomach, “I walked all the way here, and I was going to…” He trailed off, scoffing lightly. He took another drink. 

Connor swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the bottle as it fell to his side for a second time. It was terrifying not knowing where his head was at. His proximity to the lip of the platform, the flatness in his eyes as he stared almost longingly at the rusted metal below, all pushed Connor toward his darkest suspicions. He recognized how very out of his element Kevin was in that moment, but he also understood that with each hit of alcohol to his system, he was pulled further and further from the shore, growing more untethered to the rationality that kept his feet on the solid ground. Suddenly, Connor felt like this boy that he knew inside and out was a tangle of loose wires inside a bomb he had no idea how to diffuse, and he was certain any move he made would be the wrong one. And the consequences of fucking up now, _here_, were more harrowing than Connor could bear to lend a thought to. 

“I haven’t taken the train since that day,” Kevin said flatly, pulling Connor from his thoughts, “Three busses. Two transfers. One mile walk.” He paused, glancing up at Connor, who was grateful to have his attention pulled from the train tracks, “That’s how I’ve been getting to work.”

It took a moment before his words clicked into place, and when they did, Connor had to force down the rising lump in his throat. 

“After that man assaulted you,” Connor whispered, regretting his choice of words when Kevin visibly winced. He turned his gaze back to the tracks then, a prickling anxiety spreading over Connor’s limbs. 

“It’s like I’m a fucking magnet for it,” Kevin spat. 

“It has nothing to do with you,” Connor urged softly, taking his distracted attention as an opportunity to further close the distance between them. He was only a few feet away now, close enough that he could probably reach out and grab him if he needed to. 

“Doesn’t it, though?” Kevin huffed humorlessly, “I’m the one who gets to carry it around forever.” 

Connor didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t very well tell him he was wrong. As much as it destroyed him to think about, he knew his words were true. He may not have a firsthand grasp on what Kevin was dealing with, but if his diligent research and attentiveness had taught him anything, it was that there was no relinquishing this weight that had been forced onto his back. Not fully. 

“I know,” Connor said, his voice thick, “And that is… massively fucking unfair, Kevin.” He paused, shaking his head to ward off the rage he felt trickling in on his behalf. He softened his voice with as much sincerity as he could project into one sentence, “But there is not a single day, as long as I am alive, that you will be carrying it alone. I promise you that.” 

Kevin closed his eyes, a tear leaking through his lashes and trailing to his jawline. 

“You deserve so much better than this,” Kevin whispered.

His choice of words did nothing to assuage the ever-growing anxiety in Connor’s belly. 

“Don’t say that,” Connor shook his head, “Please, don’t say that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw the departure board flicker and glanced up to see the next train was set to arrive in one minute. He tried to pull himself back from the edge of full panic, but he still didn’t know where Kevin’s head was at, and his boyfriend’s feet were shuffling unsteadily against the pavement and he _knew_ that loud noises overwhelmed Kevin and that the roar of an oncoming train certainly wouldn’t do any favors for his wavering mental state. 

“Let’s go home,” Connor’s words came out a plea, “It’s cold out here. We can go home, we can talk about it, or we can forget about it and… and we can. We can watch one of your favorite Disney movies, or. Whatever you want.”

But Kevin didn’t seem to hear him, the tiny shred of resolve in his expression cracking, webbing out in all directions. His chin quivered under the weight of held back tears. 

“I’m in so much pain,” he whispered, his shoulders starting to shake. 

The ground beneath them began to tremble under the threat of the train’s arrival, and Connor could see the pinholes of light peeking through the darkness as it rounded the corner. Kevin’s arms were curled around his middle again as he doubled over slightly, physically wilting under the mental agony that crushed him. His weight rocked him forward, one foot now protruding halfway off of the ledge. 

“I’m sorry,” were the last two broken words Connor heard before the train plowed into the station, the deafening rattle of its landing drowning out the wordless scream Kevin released as he threw himself backward away from the danger, his hands coming up to cover his ears. Distantly, Connor was aware of the glass bottle shattering against the concrete behind him, but his sole focus was on Kevin as he lurched forward to grab him by the arms, pulling him further away from the rush of steel and wind. Kevin’s legs collapsed entirely beneath him as he screamed, and Connor eagerly took his weight, guiding them both onto the filthy ground. 

Kevin continued screaming into Connor’s chest long after the train had come to a stop, a handful of nosey passengers sparing them a glance before brushing past them. Connor paid them no mind. He couldn’t. Not when the sounds tearing free from his boyfriend’s throat were unlike anything he had ever heard. Worse than any nightmare, any fight, and panic attack he had ever witnessed, and it was as if he could _feel_ every bit of rage, of sadness, of grief that he had, in fact, been carrying with him for two and a half years. While still it was miles away, it was the closest Connor had ever come to feeling what it was like to carry that weight, and even the mere ripple was fucking unbearable. 

The train squealed as it started back up, and the open-air tunnel was once again filled to capacity with its relentless roar. When it was finally gone, it left them in the excruciating wake of its almost-destruction, Kevin’s screams having crumbled into wracking, breathless sobs against Connor’s shirt. Connor felt an enormous weight leave his shoulders with its departure and he let his head sink forward, falling to rest against the top of Kevin’s hair. He breathed in the familiar scent he would never take for granted again. 

“I wasn’t going to jump,” Kevin looked up at Connor through imploring, tearful eyes, but the strain in his voice and the way his fingers grasped desperately at Connor’s arms told him that maybe he was trying to convince himself more than anything, “I didn’t want… I wasn’t going to…”

“I know,” Connor pulled him in as he broke again, wrapping his arms tightly around him, more tightly than he had ever held him before, “I know.”

* * *

He couldn’t get Kevin to stop crying for hours after they arrived home. After what had to have been the world’s most uncomfortable Uber ride from the perspective of the driver, Connor left a sizable tip before hauling Kevin’s weight at his side up to their apartment. He hadn’t even attempted a change of clothes, as he was quite sure Kevin was too far gone to change himself and was not about to try undressing him while he was in this state. 

Kevin had collapsed onto the bed as soon as he reached it, pulling his trembling legs up to his chest on the comforter, shoes and all. Connor wasted no time shedding his own jacket and shoes and climbing into bed behind him. He hovered his arm hesitantly over Kevin’s waist, so unsure and terrified to cause him any more fear or pain than he was already experiencing. 

“Can I?” Connor asked quietly, nearly drowned out by his boyfriend’s sobs. Words were not a viable option for Kevin at the moment, but his response came in the form of desperately grabbing Connor’s arm and pulling it around himself, clinging to it so hard with both hands that Connor was sure he would have bruises in the morning. He didn’t care. He tightened his embrace as much as Kevin would allow and settled in behind him, feeling the tremors of his back against his cheek. 

“I’m right here,” Connor whispered, using his free hand to drag his fingers through Kevin’s sweaty, matted hair, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Their bed felt heavy as they shared it with the weight of the day. The weight of two long years. He could smell the alcohol coming off Kevin in waves, could feel the grime of the subway station floor on their skin, and he could still hear the screams bouncing off cold concrete that he was certain he would never stop hearing for as long as he lived. But the honesty in his own words was a grounding force for him. _I’m not going anywhere._ In the midst of so much uncertainty, Connor had never so sure of anything in his life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M WARNING YOU NOW: Length-wise, this _BARELY_ counts as an update so don't get excited. This is drabble at best, but it's 1) it's been sitting in my google drive for a hot second and it's not doing anyone any good there. And 2) I left our boys in a bit of a sad place last time, and it seems mean to just leave them hanging there. So, hope you enjoy these few tiny words. Like AO3 always tells me, brevity is the soul of wit (or something)

The platform bench vibrated from more than the rumble of the oncoming train, and Connor placed a careful hand on Kevin’s knee to still his nervous bouncing. He looked up at the contact, pulling his eyes away from whatever unfocused distance they had wandered to. 

“Sorry,” he smiled apologetically, covering Connor’s hand. Connor gave him a squeeze.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he told him. “If you don’t feel ready, we can take the bus.”

“And double our travel time?” Kevin tried for a light tone, even as his palms rubbed anxiously against his jeans. 

“I’m not in any hurry,” Connor shrugged. 

“You hate the bus.”

“Yes. But I love _you.”_

Kevin smiled as the train roared into the station, tossing up adorable tufts of his hair in the wind. 

“I’m fine,” he assured him over the squeal of brakes, but Connor noticed how tightly he gripped his hand when they stood. 

Kevin only hesitated half a second when the doors slid open, allowing a couple passengers to step out before he took a deep breath, stuck out his chest, and led Connor inside. 

One small mercy was that the train wasn’t terribly crowded in the middle of the weekday afternoon. Connor much would have preferred if there was a seat available for Kevin, but his boyfriend - determined as ever - seemed unbothered as he claimed the pole nearest the opposite doors. Connor filed in obediently beside him, snaking an arm around his back to grip the bar behind him. At the familiar _ding,_ the doors slid shut, and Connor saw Kevin’s knuckles drain white around the metal. 

He watched him carefully as more and more people trickled in at each stop, the capacity of the train growing fuller. He could practically see the stoic mask hardening over Kevin’s expression as he shuffled closer to Connor to make room. Kevin flinched as a man beside him turned too quickly, nudging him with his backpack. 

“Sorry,” Kevin muttered, even though he wasn’t the one in the wrong. Connor could see the way his cheeks flushed, hard lines of frustration etching into his forehead. 

“We can get off whenever you want to,” Connor whispered quietly to him. But Kevin only shook his head, keeping his eyes forward. Shoulders back. 

“I’m fine,” he promised. Connor nodded, but took a half step closer. Just in case. 

Light began to spill in through the windows, gradually filling the cramped space with blue sky and sunshine as their train propelled out of the tunnel and onto the Williamsburg Bridge. Kevin breathed out as the river came into view, abruptly turning so that he faced the smudged window on the sliding door, staring outward toward the city. Connor smiled as he watched him take in the view, his nose inches from the glass. 

It was the most endearing routine that Kevin had kept up for as long as they had lived in the city. Every time they rode a train that crossed a bridge, Kevin would stare out the window, even if it meant giving up his seat to stand by the door. It was like he was a little kid visiting the big city for the very first time. Even after his honeymoon phase with New York City should have faded into the mundane day-to-day, the wonder of it all never seemed to lose its magic on him. Connor liked to imagine that this was how he used to look at nine years old, staring up at Cinderella’s castle. He felt immensely lucky to see a glimpse of that boy shining through.

Connor startled when a soft hand slid around his waist, then a second as Kevin wound his arms around his middle, pulling him close. Keeping his face toward the window, he rested his cheek against Connor’s shoulder and breathed out. Suddenly Connor felt like he could breathe, too. With that boy in his arms and the beautiful cityscape passing just beyond the glass, for that moment, everything was okay.


End file.
